Whales Ll Poem by Morgan Michaels

Single-sole or two by twain or threne
by threne they flail the blue-confronting-blue
which, finally, is the horizon
with their tremendous tails and gulleys of baleen
sad to have grown so small
compared to their immense forbears, and so dull-
mindful how the seas former denizon
s(twice as long and thrice as green)
had skill to sift delusion from the True.

There is a moment before all that follow
you know what each succeeding one will bring
what it hasn't yet but will allow
before its fellows fall a-following;
so though your watch has stopped
you know exactly how the time will on.
I don't know how we know it but we do
I call it 'memory-anticipation; '
flat and glassy blue

the sea shifts and smiles in its sleep and gleams
a-glitterglow with fiery, blinding spangles
bothering the heart with speculation
of where it next will part and issue all at angles
whelk-stuck jaws or ragged flukes or dripping fins.
You know they'll appear, the dripping fin
s, that is, but never when. So ocean dreams
its own prodigious themes
and keeps you guessing how and where and when.